


Savour

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [11]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-26
Updated: 2004-09-26
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Savour

A week ago he'd have been revolted, and certainly uninspired, by the prospect before him; Jack Sparrow's dark, heavy cock, standing proud from the musky mess of black hair at Sparrow's groin — how different that musk was from the dimly-remembered scent of a woman! — and pulsing, throbbing, in Jack's hand the way his own'd once pulsed (for women, indeed; but never mind that): oh, a week ago had been another world, in which he'd never even heard the name of Captain Jack Sparrow; and now he was bending his head so that his curious tongue could savour the taste of that clear stickiness that welled from _another man's prick_ , an organ that he'd taken inside himself in one way already tonight, and was aching to feel again there, but which made him endlessly curious, playful, subversive; which he wanted to explore with every sense; he applied the very tip of his tongue to that sensitive spot he remembered, just at the base of Sparrow's cockhead, and wanted to cheer at the noise he won from Jack Sparrow, and the sensation of Sparrow's cock pressing against his mouth as Sparrow canted his hips just so, and Sparrow's long fingers slid around the curve of Jack's skull, caressingly; "Jack..." said Sparrow breathlessly, as Jack removed his mouth from this enviably unmangled specimen, and wrapped his hand more firmly around the shaft, "By Christ, Mr Shaftoe, your _mouth_ , oh Christ let me —" and he was pushing, wriggling, writhing, almost tipping Jack Shaftoe out of the hanging cot, pulling away from Jack's hand and mouth so that for a moment Jack was sure that he'd somehow, despite that open-mouthed moan, done something wrong, and for punishment would not be allowed to play any more; but then Jack Sparrow settled against him, atop him, again, and his feet (which were white and chilly) had somehow ended up near Jack's head, and his mouth oh _God_ his mouth was pressed against the crease where Jack Shaftoe's thigh met his hip, and he was tonguing and kissing and creeping closer, closer — Jack writhed with something like embarrassment or shame, but not very convincingly, because it wasn't as though Jack Sparrow hadn't already seen it all, felt it all, and kissed him and fucked him (and let himself be fucked, albeit by hand, as it were, but none the less effectively for this break from tradition) and made him come, all without any sign of disgust at the admittedly dismal state of Jack's privities — and now Jack Sparrow's tongue was busy at what remained of Jack's prick, and that remnant was responding eagerly to his attentions; this made Jack's mouth water, which at first confused him and then made him realise that Sparrow's cock was nudging against his shoulder and that he had done nothing about it, nothing at all, for almost a minute, whilst Jack Sparrow's marvellous mouth made utmost adoring love to him; so Jack curled himself closer around the pirate captain, and got his own lips back around Sparrow's hot, pulsing cock, and licked curiously all around the head of it — Sparrow, his mouth being full, could not speak, but his groans became more enthusiastic, and the motions of his own swirling tongue redoubled upon Jack — and meantime reached around with one hand to cup Sparrow's balls, and heft their weight, and run his thumb up behind them to that little ridge of skin; oh, Sparrow felt that, for he writhed and moaned and tightened his mouth around Jack until it felt almost like fucking, and now _Sparrow's_ hand was cupping Jack's testicles, and Jack, feeling reckless, closed his mouth over the salt-welling head of Jack Sparrow's cock, trying to imagine how it might feel to Sparrow, savouring the peculiar sharp taste and sure that as he suckled and lapped at Sparrow's cock (like a bear licking her cub into shape) it was growing, hardening impossibly more, becoming hotter with every lingering sweep of his tongue; he could feel the tension in Sparrow's body in every place where that body touched his own, and in the aborted twitch of Sparrow's hips he read the thwarted intent of thrusting that hard, hot prick all the way into Jack's own mouth; which image made him moan and try to swallow it deeper, though his mouth was already beginning to ache from being stretched so; yet he'd taken it all (and could've taken more) at, so to speak, the opposite end of his body, and he wanted to make Sparrow feel as he felt, now, entirely engulfed in blazing liquid heat, with a hand (Jack copied its careful motion) pressing just _there_ , just _so_ , and Sparrow's hair falling across Jack's thighs as he repositioned himself and began to do something, something extraordinary with mouth and hands — for his other hand was down there too, pushing and probing and opening, so that Jack was being press'd from inside and out — and Sparrow'd done this before, Jack was sure of it, but no matter who he'd practiced on, he was here with Jack now, in this madly-swinging narrow cot, and his cock was pushing into Jack's throat in a way that was at once suffocating and wickedly exciting, so that Jack found himself gasping for air around this slick, alive invasion, and pumping his own hips helplessly up into Sparrow's cunning mouth, willing to do anything, anything at all, to and with and for Jack Sparrow if only he would return the favour; craving the imagin'd taste of Sparrow's seed when, as seemed increasingly imminent, he spent in Jack's mouth; captivated by the notion of Sparrow's mouth drinking him stickily down when _he_ spent — which moment could not much longer be delayed, and he was moaning no less wantonly than Sparrow, the sound of whose voice went directly through the cicatrised flesh of Jack's prick into his bloodstream, and from thence was conveyed instantly to his brain, his heart and every nerve in his body — and, having tasted their mingled semen on his own hand, and on Jack Sparrow's, he was wild to have it fresh from the source; now (now!) Sparrow was trying to pull away, no doubt from some misguided notion of gentility, and Jack let him move just far enough that the head of his cock, all swollen and tight, slid along Jack's lower lip until it encountered his eager tongue, which greeted it with a hearty swipe; and then, oh, the sudden Flood, and the bitter tang of it, Jack swallowing and swallowing for there was more and more, and when he thought of _what_ he was swallowing, his own hips twisted up into Sparrow's groaning mouth, and he could feel Sparrow sucking everything out from Jack, even as his own climax subsided and he drew his cock from Jack's mouth; Jack gulped air, and imagined that he could feel Sparrow's seed rushing down into his belly (doubtless encountering that earlier infusion somewhere in the vicinity of his liver) like some alchemical Manna; and Jack Sparrow's mouth, withdrawing, planted a kiss upon Jack's detumescing demi-member, and then its owner said, "So, Jack, tell me true: was that what you predicted?"


End file.
